We had a pretty raucous afternoon beginning with the rugby team, then a couple of pub crawls, and the topper, a bachelorette party. Prior to working at my bar, I used to refer to it as the best gay bar in Santa Monica, because the appearance of a woman was rare. Thank God for that bachelorette party because the ratio of sweaty dudes to women was probably twenty-five to one before they walked in. If you were to ask me which of the groups would be the loudest and most out of control, I would’ve listed the bachelorette party last. I would’ve been wrong.

The bar was already busy without the ladies. I’m not sure what their theme was but about twenty of them came in wearing short skirts. Gator said it best, “I feel like a piece of meat.” Now sometimes I can join in to customers’ reindeer games but I wasn’t having it yesterday. One of them ordered an Amstel Light. I quoted her the happy hour price of four dollars. She peeled a five off her roll and shouted, “Take off your shirt!” The rest of her brood chimed in with, “Take it off! Take it off!” I replied, “No, thank you,” and held back her beer. I believe Tim eventually sold it to her. Another of the gaggle explained that she had a boyfriend in one of the bands that played at our bar and could she dance on the bar. I don’t like to deny customers anything except seeing my areolae, so I said, “As long as I don’t see it.” By the way, there was no way to miss this spectacle. The requisite crotch shot just getting up on the bar was worth the price of admission. One of her friends stood on a stool, bent over, and had another girl smack her ass. Yes, it was on.

The douche bags of the night reared their ugly heads early. They were a dozen or so, I don’t like to use the word camel fuckers because for all I know camels fuck them, so I’ll just say they were a dozen or so sandtards. They crammed into a table for Princess Ahmadinejad’s birthday. I handed them menus and asked if they wanted anything. They didn’t seem ready so I attended to my paying customers. At the third visit to their table, I was asked, “Do you have any birthday shots?” I asked, “How many?” One said, “Just for her.” I asked the craziest question, “What are the rest of you having?” The birthday girl wanted champagne, I could only assume for free, while the rest of the sandtards asked each other “Do you want anything?” I stepped away and eventually saw their dreams of “when a dozen don’t order, the birthday girl drinks for free” wash away.

It turned out it was a great happy hour if for no other reason than the rugby team. Usually they all vacate and return later but at least a dozen of them put in a solid eight hour shift. I hate to pander but I have to give a shout out to Coach Doug Bratcher. Aside from being a great customer and super generous tipper, he’s a recent reader and a big fan of the blog. I, also, have to mention Brooke Nelson Hughes, who fears over imbibing and getting mentioned in the blog. I’m not bothered by the fact that she knocked over a beautifully prepared Jameson and Ginger, it was the drunken doe-eyed, Stockholm syndrome, thousand apologies response. I miss the Brooke who fights to the death over the nineteen kamikazes she thinks she didn’t order.

I often get customers who feel like they’re being over charged. A few weeks ago, a guy refused to pay for three pints he ordered, because they were too costly. He said, “Why don’t you warn a guy how much drinks cost?” I’m sure at some bars this guy goes to, they do credit checks with each order, but we don’t do that for pints of beer. In any case, one gentleman order two car bombs. I made them, spilled one, not important, and said, “Twenty bucks.” He broke one of my rules and drank before paying. I wasn’t bothered, I said again, “Twenty bucks.” He said something, which my deafness prevented me from hearing and handed me two twenties. I gave him change of one and he left the money on the bar. Now I’m pride myself on my service but it wasn’t twenty bucks tip on two drinks good. I chased him down and gave him his change. Turns out he thought that the bombs were twenty each. I wish we had more customers like him.

There were a couple of firsts for me last night. One was a guy whose wallet had his name “Pete” painted on and below it was a baseball, a basketball, and soccer ball, also, painted on. It’s the kind of thing I would buy my son if A) I didn’t shoot blanks and could have a son, B) he was nine, and C) he was retarded. Negro, puhleaze, you’re an adult presumably trying to get laid to get laid up in here. Are you gonna take a woman home and pull out a Big Poppa Smurf blue condom out of that wallet? I could understand if the wallet said “Peter” and had a picture of a syringe, a pill, and a bong, but lets come to the bar wearing big boy underpants. The other first was a two drink order: a Bushmills and cranberry and a triple Ketel One and cranberry. First of all, I have never mixed Irish Whiskey and cranberry. Second of all, when I make a double, it’s gonna hurt, if for no other reason than you’re paying twice as much, but a triple. I had to leave some ice out of the glass to make that one.

The latter part of the night wasn’t as lucrative as we expected. For every Knox, Sin, Vance, Nelson, Bratcher, Manzo, Manavian, Gobeil, there’s some cunt leaving three on seventy-seven. I guess you take the good with the bad.

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